


All in the Family

by Sarcasticles



Category: Daughter of the Lilies (Webcomic)
Genre: At least regarding city elves, Backstory, Canon-Typical Sexism, Family Drama, Gen, I think?, Toxic Family Dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2019-10-19 08:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17597408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sarcasticles/pseuds/Sarcasticles
Summary: Their family wasn't always this broken. Or maybe it was, and no one noticed until it was too late. Contains massive spoilers for The Murder of Arthur Wright





	1. A Picture Taken

**Author's Note:**

> The Murder of Arthur Wright is my attempt at the mystery genre, and All in the Family are the bits of backstory I've written out for my OCs that I felt like sharing. Each chapter is a self-contained one shot, but I plan on having it follow the Wright's story basically in chronological order. 
> 
> When developing OCs I often write snippets that I know won’t make it into the main fic because it helps met get into the heads of my characters, developing both their personalities and their motivations. In addition, I tend to suffer the temptation of cramming too much useless backstory in where it doesn’t belong. Physically writing down said backstory in a separate place keeps me from trying to shoehorn in things that don’t really need explained. 
> 
> That being said, there will be major spoilers for The Murder of Arthur Wright. I've had some of these posted on tumblr for awhile, and Meg even did some art for chapter 2. If you're interested you can see it here https://creative-type.tumblr.com/post/177755956651/just-another-side-story

Desdemona hated ringlets. She had known that since she was five years old and her mother had made the servants curl her hair for the yearly family photo. She hated how they felt, hated how they looked like a pile of fish guts on her head, and _hated_ how she had been given no choice in the matter.

 _Abigail_ didn’t have to deal with things like this. Mother had put them in matching dresses _(oh don’t they look precious)_ but had let her sister get away with tying her hair back with a ribbon. After all, it _simply wouldn’t do_ to have the twins look to look too identical. _That_ would simply be poor taste.

How anyone could confuse them was beyond Desdemona. Abby had inherited mother’s beautiful grey eyes that looked like thunderclouds right before a rain, while she was stuck with just plain brown. Boring brown eyes with boring brown hair was bad enough, but add fish guts on top of everything else and it was nearly unbearable.

Desdemona ruined the first picture with her sulking, and that night when no one was looking she stole Mother’s scissors from her sewing basket and cut every stupid lock. When she was done her hair was almost as short as Felix’s.

“You know Mother will just make Father grow it back,” Abby said, the epitome of practicality when Desdemona strode proudly into her bedroom to show off what she’d done. Abby was _always_ practical. It was why she hardly ever got into trouble when Desdemona couldn’t so much as sneeze without incurring the wrath of whatever adult happened to be present.

Desdemona jutted her chin out stubbornly. Abby may have gotten Mother’s eyes, but it was _she_ who had inherited her indomitable spirit. “Maybe, but at least then it won’t be ringlets.”

And she was right. When Mother saw what she’d done she actually _screamed_ , and in the shock and subsequent firing of the governess for derelict of duty (Desdemona did feel bad for that, but not enough to regret what she’d done) she forgot to even punish Desdemona for cutting off all her hair.

The noise attracted Father from his study, and at the sight of her he laughed. It was a short, barking laugh that Mother quieted with a withering glare, but it _was_ a laugh. Desdemona couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen her father so much as smile, and the sight of his amusement—and by extension his approval—made her spirit soar.

It took Father two whole days to find a spell to grow her hair back, but both Desdemona and Abby agreed he could have managed it quicker if he wanted to. Mother could hardly stand the sight of her and Felix thought looked like a freak, but Father didn’t seem to mind. When the time came to grow her hair, Father took Desdemona to his study. She burned with insatiable curiosity as he used magic to unlock the door and guided her into the one room of the house that even she knew better than to enter.

Desdemona was disappointed to see that the room she was told was _Forbidden with a capital F_ was completely and utterly normal. There was a desk and some paper and lots and lots of books. The air felt a little tingly, making the hairs on the nape of her neck stand on end, but she had been around magic enough she hardly noticed.

“You look disappointed.” Father sat in his chair and beckoned her closer.

“I thought you did your secret magic here,” Desdemona said.

“I do.”

Desdemona regarded him doubtfully. In stories secret magic was much more interesting than this. She had expected tapestries of arcane rituals or animals in cages ready to be experimented on. There weren’t even jars of odious substances lining the back wall.

“What do you do here?” she asked.

“Mathematics, mostly, and I think. My work requires quite a bit of thinking.” Father nodded once, as if reassuring himself that was indeed how he spent his days. Then he caught himself and looked down at Desdemona. The air filled with awkward silence.

Desdemona was used to Father feeling awkward when trying to talk to her.

“That sounds boring. If magic is that boring then I don’t want to do it,” Desdemona said.

Was it her imagination, or did Father look disappointed? The look was gone almost as soon as it appeared, and he cleared his throat. “Well, then it’s fortunate that a well-bred young lady of your stature ought not have anything to do with magic, isn’t it?”

“I suppose it is,” Desdemona said, imitating his tone with a mocking lilt.

Father frowned at her. “In any case, that was, um, a very bad thing you’ve done. With your hair, I mean. You’ve given your mother an awful shock.”

“She gave _me_ an awful shock trying to make my hair look like fish guts,” Desdemona retorted.

There it was again, a short laugh that wasn’t stifled nearly in time. Father brought his hand over his mouth to hide his smile until he got himself back under control. He made his face look grave, but when he spoke he sounded amused.

“Yes, well, what you’ve done is unladylike and unmannerly. You mustn’t disobey her again.” Father said. Desdemona added the unsaid _and a shameful embarrassment_. Mother was always saying Desdemona’s actions reflected poorly on the family—and by extension _her_ abilities as a mother.

“But _why?_ ”  

“Because she is your mother, and because I said so,” Father said.

“That’s not a reason,” Desdemona said sullenly.

“Life is full of disappointment,” Father said. “Now come here and let me put this back to rights.”

Desdemona obeyed while Father consulted the notebook where he kept his spells. She was so angry she could scream, the unfairness of it all tearing her from the inside out, but she knew instinctively not to test his patience. Mother might have forgotten to punish her, but Father _never_ forgot.

“Hold still,” Father murmured. His hand glowed with the ethereal silver of his magic. He placed it on the top of her head, and for the briefest moment the tingling in the air grew into an almost tangible thing. Then her scalp began to itch and she could feel something wiggling just under her skin. Desdemona shrieked and tried to jerk away, but Father’s grip was firm.

“There. All done,” he said. An eyebrow rose over the rim of his wire-framed spectacles. “I suppose your mother will want to see it trimmed, but your hair is back.”

Desdemona couldn’t help but touch it. Father had gone a little overboard with his spell, and her hair now went down to the middle of her back instead of just past the shoulder. After two days of being almost bald the weight of it made her head feel heavy.

“Please don’t let her curl it again,” Desdemona begged. “She will just because she knows I hate it. I know she will.”

Father was silent a moment. “That’s your mother’s choice, not mine. Now shoo, I’ve got to get back to work.”

Hot tears prickled in the corners of Desdemona's eyes as she rushed back to Abigail’s room. She threw herself on her sister’s bed and railed against the unfairness of the world and the stupidity of grownups. Abby listened patiently, never once judging her for daring to fight back.

But there was precious little Desdemona could do _to_ fight back. She was five years old, and though she’d successfully gotten (another) governess fired she had no real power. She _had_ to do what her parents told her to do for the simple fact that they were her parents. Desdemona hated that, more than she hated having her hair look like fish guts.

And while Desdemona wept, Arthur Wright pulled a brand new photograph out of his jacket pocket. His wife had declared it horrid and demand he get rid of it, but for some reason he could not bring himself to do so.

In a moment of whimsy he paused to write the children’s names and ages on the back of the snapshot before sliding it into the secret compartment of his desk. There it would stay for more than twenty years, hidden from the outside world and forgotten by Arthur Wright as he plunged deeper and deeper into the murky depths of his research.


	2. A Lesson Learned

Abigail was sitting in the drawing room when the clock struck nine. Blinking slowly she looked up from her lessons and noted that their latest governess was nowhere to be seen. The poor woman likely assumed it was safe to leave her by herself—they all did at first. Most never realized that Abigail could be just as devious as her sister when she put her mind to it. The few who did never stayed long enough for it to make a difference.

Abigail rechecked her work, but even now the subject matter baffled her. Father had always taken an unusual interest in his children’s education, giving the siblings supplementary work in addition to whatever their tutors assigned. He pushed hard, but never exceeded the boundaries of his children’s ability.

At least, not usually. This time Abigail was sure Father had overestimated her, and badly at that. She supposed it was her fault. After all, she had been the one to complain that her lessons bored her to tears.

In her stocking feet, Abigail trod softly out of the drawing room and took the servant’s stair to the kitchen. Mother would have had a fit if she saw, but Abigail was on a mission requiring the utmost stealth. At this time of night Father would have retreated back to his study and Mother would be finishing up her correspondence. Abigail always wondered which of her parents used more paper, but she never had the courage to ask.

Desdemona never lacked courage to ask whatever questions came to her mind. Sometimes Abigail envied her sister, just a little. She didn’t know how Dessy could stand getting into so much trouble. Just the thought of being on the wrong side of a tongue-lashing was enough to turn Abigail’s knees to jelly.

The rest of the time, tonight included, Abigail was convinced her sister’s actions had nothing to do with courage and everything to do with reckless idiocy.

Abigail made it to the kitchens unseen. Most of the staff were gone for the night, but Maudie, the family cook, was at the back table kneading bread. Abigail hovered by the stairway and waited until she was finished, unwilling to interrupt her work. She watched carefully, mesmerized by the practiced, rhythmic motions Maudie used, and wondered why bread needed to be kneaded at all.

 _Needed to be kneaded._ Her mind instantly registered the play on words as a homophone, just like _new_ and _knew, locks_ and _lox_ , and _canopies_ and _can of peas._ Okay, maybe that last one was just a pun, but it was close enough.

In any case, Maudie was setting aside the dough, and that was her cue to step forward. When Maudie caught sight of Abigail a smile spread across her round, pleasant face. Maudie was the longest tenured servant of the estate, hired just after her parents were married. Abigail had known her since babyhood and trusted her more than anyone in the world, aside from her sister. The other servants described Maudie a wise old bird, which seemed about right even if it was rude to say out loud.

But tonight the most important thing about Maudie was she refused to let any of the Wright children go to bed hungry, even if they had been sent to their rooms without supper.

“Hello there, Abby girl,” Maudie said. “Is there something I can get for you?”

“Uh huh.”

“For here or to go?” she asked knowingly.

“To go,” Abigail said quietly as she approached Maudie. If she stood on her tiptoes she could see just over the lip of the table. It took a small measure of will not to poke the round ball of bread dough just to see what it felt like.

Maudie nodded and got to work making a cold tongue sandwich. “I heard your sister put on quite a show tonight.”

Abigail sighed a longsuffering sigh. “I don’t know what she was thinking.”

“That it would be funny to play a tavern song for your mother, I expect,” Maudie said. “I’m more curious where she learned it from.”

She set a molasses cookie in front of Abigail for her to chew on and waited for her to answer. Even at the tender age of nine Abigail was careful with her words. She had to be since Dessy never was.

“I don’t want anyone to get into trouble,” Abigail said finally. “ _More trouble_ , I guess.”

“Aye, but I think we all know it would be better if it didn’t happen again. If it were one of the staff, I’ll make sure it doesn’t.”

That made sense. The whole reason Dessy had been sent upstairs without dinner was because she refused to rat out who gave her sheet music to the well-known, _extremely_ inappropriate tavern song. Abigail knew her sister well enough to recognize that such a source of forbidden knowledge would be an impossible temptation in the future.

Still she was slow to answer. Betraying Dessy’s trust to anyone, even if it was just Maudie, felt wrong somehow.

“We were just supposed to show off what we’d learned for Mother,” Abigail said. “I don’t like piano lessons either, but that doesn’t mean I go and learn something so…so _horrid._ ”

Maudie smiled. “It’s just a song, love. I’m sure your sister doesn’t even know the words.”

She didn’t. Neither of them did, although it wasn’t for a lack of trying. “It’s the principle of the matter,” Abigail argued, echoing Mother’s reaction once she’d calmed down enough to decide on a punishment.

Abigail sighed and finished off her cookie, wondering if that was Maudie’s way of bribing her for information. If so, it was a very effective. “The stable boy’s father works at the bar. I think he got it from the musician they’ve got working there, but I’m not sure.”

“I’ll make sure the lad gets talked to,” Maudie promised before pushing the sandwich towards her. “And I’ll be up later to take the plate.”

“Thank you,” Abigail said. She hesitated, then looked up at Maudie. “I wish I understood why she keeps doing it.”

“Doing what, love?”

“Break the rules,” Abigail said miserably. “Felix and I put together don’t get yelled at half as often as she does.”

Maudie hummed a tuneless song and busied herself cleaning off her table. “I expect it’s for the same reason you keep breaking the rules to sneak her up food.”

“I’m being logical,” Abigail protested.

“So is Miss Desdemona, in her own way,” Maudie said. “You might not understand it, _she_ might not be able to tangle through her feelings enough to understand it, but no one does anything without reason. Tell me, love, did you ask that governess of yours the same question you asked me the other night?”

Abigail flushed scarlet. “Yes.”

“And what did she say?”

“That I was being frivolous and not to distract from the lesson,” Abigail said. “But that’s not the same at _all!_ I just wanted to know why people’s elbows go limp when they’re relaxed when their fingers curl in instead. It’s not my fault all she ever teaches us is _grammar_.”

Maudie chuckled at Abigail’s disgusted expression. “Aye, and your sister is just as curious, only her curiosity is more a test of cause and effect than anatomy. You two are really quite similar.”

“Felix says she got all the excitement and I got all the quiet and if you mixed us together you’d get a normal person,” Abigail mumbled.

“Felix was known to cause his own fair share of trouble when he was younger,” Maudie said. “Not unlike Miss Desdemona, now that I think about it.” She chuckled softly. “You can definitely tell you share the same blood.”

Abigail considered this. Of course anyone could tell she and Dessy were siblings just by looking. You could even tell with Felix, because all three of them had gotten Father’s long, thin nose. But she had never thought about their personalities being similar.

Her eyes slid to the crumpled sheets of parchment that held the problems Father had assigned her. Each had been monstrously difficult, necessitating hours upon hours in the library and a good deal of time looking up words she didn’t know to finish on time.

But she _had_ finished. Pride and stubbornness kept her from giving up or admitting to her father that it was too difficult.

Abigail looked up at Maudie wondrously.

“See?” Maudie said, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes crinkling with a smile. “I’ve always said families is made out of the same ingredients, just in different proportions. It all balances out in the end. Now go on, afore you get caught wandering about where you shouldn’t.”

Abigail scurried away to the second story, staying unseen and unnoticed until she knocked on Dessy’s door—two sharp raps, a pause, and then two more.

Dessy opened the door almost immediately, relief written on her face. “Oh, good. I didn’t think you’d make it tonight.”

“Hush, do you want someone to hear?” Abigail said as her sister snatched the plate.

“Maybe,” Dessy grinned, modulating her voice to scarcely a whisper. “Send Maudie my regards.”

“Do it yourself when she picks up the plate,” Abigail said. “I’m going to turn in my lessons to Father.”

“Now?” Dessy said. “It’s so late.”

“I just got finished.”

Dessy cocked her head. “That’s not like you,” she said. “What’d he have you doing, anyway? Copy pages out of the dictionary?”

“It’s _nothing._ Goodnight, Dessy.”

“…’Night.”

Abigail shut the door quietly and let out a deep breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. It _was_ late, late enough that under normal circumstances she would have never bothered her father. Technically speaking he wasn’t expecting the lesson till tomorrow. Likely Dessy was just starting the problems she’d been given. Even done in a mad dash she would still get more right than not, because even though Dessy was sometimes an idiot she wasn’t _stupid._ Abigail wished more people could see that.

But if she waited till tomorrow she wouldn’t see Father’s reaction when he saw the amount of work she had put into her lessons. This way maybe…maybe he would notice her like he did Felix or Mother did Dessy.

Abigail took another breath and stole some of Dessy’s courage. Only it wasn’t really Dessy’s and it wasn’t really stealing. If Maudie was right then she had braveness in her, just like her sister. It was just in different proportions.

Abigail didn’t have the foolhardy recklessness to get a tavern song from the stable boy, but she did have the deep, aching desire to please her father, and that was enough to make her feet move forward, one step at a time.

She felt her skin tighten as she neared his study, the air so thick with magic she could almost taste it. The servants always felt uneasy around so much, but to Abigail it was second nature. She raised her hand to knock on the door and faltered, her knuckles hovering just above the wood.

What if he got angry? What if he didn’t have time or didn’t care? Father had been so terribly busy since his appointment at the university, with little time to for anyone, least of all her. Felix was training to be a mage and practically an adult, while Dessy’s wild antics detracted from any attention he might have spared for her. Abigail had always felt like the lost child, devoid of either of her sibling’s flashier talents.

 _There’s no way to know if you don’t knock, stupid,_ a voice that sounded frighteningly like Dessy said. Abigail swallowed hard.

She knocked on the door.

There was a moment of silence, then she heard her father’s heavy footsteps before he swung open the door to the study, forcing her to jump back to avoid being hit.

“What is it?” Father said irritably. “I said I wasn’t to be disturb…Abigail?” Father looked down his long nose, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“I wanted to show you something,” Abigail all-but-whispered. She handed him the problems from her lesson.

Father took them silently, the line between his eyebrows getting even deeper. Abigail took a step back and fought the urge to slouch. Mother always said ladies weren’t supposed to slouch.

“What in the world is this?” Father said.

“My lessons. I-I wanted you to see.”

Father blinked owlishly behind his round spectacles. “ _You_ did this?”

Somehow Abigail found the strength to nod.

Father looked back down at the papers, to her, then to the papers again. The longer his silence the harder it was not to fidget, and that was worse than slouching. It felt like an eternity before Father turned back towards his study.

“Come here, Abigail.”

He didn’t sound upset. If anything Father was perplexed. Abigail had never seen her father so confused, and wasn’t sure if it was better or worse than his annoyance.

“Where did you even get this?” Father asked once they were in the study and he’d closed the door.

“You gave it to me,” Abigail said.

“ _When?_ ”

“Last week, when you handed out our lessons,” Abigail said. “When I said…when I said the work we’d been given was too easy.”

Father stared at her. “Abigail, do you know what this is?”

“I, um, my lessons?” she guessed, suddenly unsure.

“These were _Felix’s_ lessons from when I started tutoring him in magic,” Father said. “I gave him these problems when he was twelve years old.”

Oh.

 _Oh._   

No wonder it had been so difficult.

Father spun around and sifted through the stacks of paper on his desk. He never let the servants tidy this room. He claimed no motes of dust would _dare_ settle where he conducted his precious research, and Abigail supposed that was true.

That didn’t stop it from being a mess.

Abigail let out a giggle. She couldn’t help it. Her father was the greatest mage she had ever met, one of the greatest in the world, and he had lost her homework.

“That’s not funny, young lady,” Father said, but there was no force behind his words. He slumped down into his chair. “Do you even know what any of this means?”

“Um, most of it,” Abigail said. “I had to use a dictionary.”

He peered again at the paper. “Define kinetic energy.”

“The energy of movement, based on mass and velocity of an object in motion,” Abigail said without hesitation. “Like when you drop something on the ground.”

Father’s eyebrows rose a fraction of an inch. “Define potential energy.”

“Um…” This was more difficult. She had found the answer, but she still had trouble making sense of it. “It’s the energy something _might_ have, based on where it is and how it might move. Like when you have something on the edge of a table that might fall.” Abigail thought back to what she’d read. “I think both are measured in Joules.”

Father leaned back in his chair and let out a sharp breath through his teeth. “How long did this take you to do?”

“A long time,” Abigail said, embarrassed. “There are some things I still don’t understand. I thought maybe...maybe you could explain it to me?”

Father acknowledged this with a faint nod, but didn’t speak for a long time. His eyes were distant as he thought.

Abigail almost thought he’d forgotten she was there when he came abruptly to his feet and tore at his desk until he found a piece of chalk attached to a long stick. He used the chalk to draw a circle with Abigail at the center.

“Why are you drawing on the floor?” Abigail asked. All she could think was how upset the servants would be if they saw what he was doing.

“Abigail, darling, I want you to try something for me,” Father said. “I can’t let the energy of the room interfere.”

He closed the circle and murmured a word that made the chalk glow. Suddenly Abigail was cut off from all the magic of her father’s study. The lack of familiar energy felt wrong somehow, but she didn’t dare say so out loud.

“Alright,” Father said, taking a small step back. “Abigail, I’m going to teach you a word, and I want you to try to call light to your hand.”

“With magic?” Abigail said.

“Yes, Abigail, with magic,” Father said breathlessly. “But first I want you to promise _never_ to try this when I’m not around to watch over you. Magic is very dangerous, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Yes, Father,” Abigail said.

“I’m serious. Not even to Desdemona, not unless I’m present. Do you understand?”

Father was always serious, but there was a gravitas in his voice that Abigail had never heard before. She nodded timorously. “Yes, Father.”

“That’s my good girl. Now, when you say the magic word, you need to concentrate on nothing else but the light. There can be no distractions, no stray thoughts. Just think of the light you want to see in your hand. Do you understand?”

Again Abigail nodded, and Father taught her the words, making sure she pronounced them correctly. She could feel the power of it even through the circle, and she lifted her hand.

” _Fiat lux.”_

Nothing happened, not so much as a flicker. Abigail frowned, and concentrated on light. This was important. She couldn’t—she _refused_ —to mess up.

But even with the words guiding her, Abigail couldn’t do it. It was just too hard to focus when Father was staring at her, waiting anxiously for something to happen. It was impossible to miss the disappointment as seconds, then minutes passed.

“Maybe it was too much to expect,” Father murmured. “All right, Abigail, I’m going to break the circle.”

“No!” Abigail cried. “Let me try one more time, I promise I can do it!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. We can try again later, when you’re more rested and I’ve—“

“ _No.”_

Abigail doubled down on her concentration. Every mage she knew could call light. She had seen her father do it dozens of times, and he didn’t need any stupid magic words to manage it. She wanted to make _light_ , and she wouldn’t rest until she did.

She thought of the sun’s rays on a midsummer day and the soft glow of candle flame. She remembered nights catching fireflies with Desdemona and winters spent reading in front of the cherry-red glow of the fireplace. Abigail had read once that moon was only visible because it reflected the light of the sun, and that the universe was full of thousands and thousands of suns as strong as their own, but they were so far away that they looked like pinpricks in the night sky.

Abigail remembered the soft, silver glow of her father’s magic, and how effortlessly it came to him. She brought both her hands up as if coaxing a wild and frightened animal and whispered,

“ _Fiat lux.”_

She felt power stir deep within her, struggling to escape. It was wild and untamed, and it seemed determined to go anywhere but her hands.

That simply would not do. Abigail directed the energy from her core first to her shoulders, then her elbows, and finally down to her wrists. At every stop a portion was lost, and by the time it reached her hands there was almost nothing left.

But it was enough.

Bright, blinding light shone from her palms, pulsing outward like an exploding star. It burned through the remainder of Abigail’s energy in seconds, and the light quickly transformed to heat. Her hands felt like they were on fire as she swayed dangerously on her feet, her pulse thundering in her ears.

The euphoria of success was the last thing she remembered before her knees buckled under her weight. She’d done it. She’d made light just by speaking, and Father had seen. Father had seen, and he would be happy, only he didn’t look happy. He looked afraid

           and she was falling...

                                    …Why was she falling…?

Strong arms enveloped her before she hit the ground. She heard someone cry out her name, but it sounded far away, like she was listening through water.

Abigail opened her eyes and smiled at her Father. All her life she’d thought herself as the lost child of the Wright family, stuck between wise, worldly Felix and exuberant, wild Dessy. Abigail had never thought, even for a second, that she had inherited even a portion of her father’s talent.

But she had.

She just needed to be stubborn enough to see it.            

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fiat lux is the Latin translation of Genesis 1:3. It seemed fitting for the DotL world


	3. A Promise Made

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so I was planning on doing this chronologically...but I don't think my muse is gonna let that happen

It was the greatest accomplishment of Desdemona’s young life that, at only twenty years of age, she singlehandedly convinced her parents to take an extended vacation.

All her life the Wright family had followed maintained their yearly schedule with clockwork consistency. Winters were always spent at the capital while the country estate occupied their summers. Mother participated in the same old organizations with the same old people while Father taught at the university and locked himself in stuffy rooms full of book dust and magic. There was no spontaneity, no adventure or freedom. Just year after stinking _year_  of boring routine.

It had been difficult, of course. Felix had been reluctant to part from his beloved while Father balked at lost time, but Desdemona called upon every social grace that had been forced upon her to get her way. She and Abigail were twenty years old now, Felix twenty-eight. Soon they would all be married off and scattered to the four winds. This was, perhaps, their last opportunity to spend time together as a family.

It was a little known fact that Mother could, in fact, be swayed by such sentimentality, and once Desdemona had her on her side it was only a matter of time before Father was convinced as well. Once they wheedled past his defenses Desdemona joined forces with her mother to plan a spectacular trip that would span the whole of the country. No expense would be spared, no sight left unseen. It was everything Desdemona had dreamed of since she was a little girl and Abigail had given her an old travelogue for her birthday, and she was determined to enjoy every minute.

They started in the south, making it to Pentref in time for the Festival of Lights. Then there was a week spent near the ruins of Prau, and days boating off the coast of the Rhannu Mor. The Wrights traveled to the highest peak of the Elven lands, explored the glittering wonder that was the crystal forest, and traversed the historic battlegrounds of the Elf-Orc wars. Six months they spent on the road, together as a family for the first time since Desdemona and Abigail had been sent to separate boarding schools when they were eleven years old.

But all good things came to an end, and their next stop would be the capital. Father would resume his teaching, Felix would ask his beloved for her hand in marriage, and Mother would formally announce Desdemona and Abigail to the court. It was as inevitable as the rising of the sun, and Desdemona resented it with every fiber of her being.

With a longsuffering sigh she slid out of bed and threw back the curtains of her hotel room window. The moon was fat and bright, shining an invitation through the glass panes that Desdemona found nearly irresistible. Somewhere in the back of her mind she heard the clock strike three. It was the witching hour, and all were in bed.

Except for her.

With catlike grace Desdemona pulled on her slippers and snuck out of her rooms. She was a skilled sneak—at school she had gotten particularly good at shimmying down the drain pipe whenever she fancied a midnight walk. The hotel didn’t even charm their locks, the silly fools. Then again, no one expected a well-bred gentlewoman to go make mischief in the dead of night. Desdemona had even fooled Mother into thinking school had cured her of her curiosity. Six months on the road with no one the wiser was no mean feat, and it was enough that Desdemona was willing to risk it all for one last breath of freedom.

She plodded silently down the carpeted hallway, contemplating her options for this night’s escapades. There was still so much to see, away from the tourist traps and Mother’s watching eyes. Desdemona wasn’t content to confine herself to only what the wealthy and powerful wanted her to see. She wanted to know all the world had to offer, the good  _and_ the bad.

Desdemona hadn’t made it far before a light flickering under her sister’s door caught her attention. What in the world was Abigail doing up at this time of night? Surely not anything that could get her into any sort of trouble. Abigail was so straight-laced and proper it made her sick, and Desdemona only rolled her eyes before heading on her way.

She made it three steps before something that felt suspiciously like guilt pricked on her conscious. It wasn’t Abigail’s fault she didn’t jump head-first into trouble, and it wasn’t Abigail’s fault she wanted to study magic. That fact alone meant that she wasn’t nearly the demure country flower she presented herself as.

A memory stirred in Desdemona’s mind of Abigail quietly, but firmly, asking Mother to study at the mages academy near Hudcylch. Mother had been vehemently against the idea, and even Father was reluctant to allow his daughter to continue her magical education. It simply wasn’t done. Magic—serious, academic magic like what Father pursued—was for men, not well-bred young gentlewomen with an older brother to carry her father’s legacy.

Desdemona hadn’t liked the idea any more than her parents. All their life they had been inseparable, and she was destined for Miss Goodwin’s School for Ladies. The thought of hundreds of miles between them was unbearable, as was facing boarding school alone. Desdemona had  _begged_  her sister to change her mind, to no avail.

It was a cruel irony that Desdemona’s insistence was what finally sealed the deal. Though Mother didn’t know the half of what Abigail and Desdemona were capable of when they put their minds together, she  _did_ know that Desdemona was much more manageable when pried apart from her twin. And, Father mused, apart from Desdemona’s incorrigible enthusiasm Abigail might finally come into her own.

And so they went their separate ways, and though they reunited during holidays and summer break they were never the same.  

And perhaps it was an inevitable part of growing up, but Desdemona missed her sister.

Making a snap decision, Desdemona turned back and knocked softly at Abigail’s door—two raps, a pause, and then two more. More memories stirred of midnight rendezvous, stifled giggles and untold mischief. Of a simpler time, a  _happier_  time that Desdemona yearned for but was never quite sure how to recapture.  

There was a moment of silence, then Abigail’s quiet footfalls. She opened the door a crack, a book hanging limply in her off-hand and a startled expression on her face.

“Dess? What are you doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Desdemona said in what she hoped was a nonchalant manner. “I was thinking of going for a walk when I saw the light under your door.”

Abigail gave one sweeping look to the travel cloak around her shoulders and the shoes on her feet. Desdemona wasn’t sure if the expression she gave her was rueful, exasperated, or some combination of the two. It was odd. Desdemona never had trouble reading her sister before.

“May I come in?” Desdemona ventured after a moment, offering Abigail her most winsome smile. She had been told on more than one occasion that she could be devastatingly charming when she put her mind to it. The trouble was she rarely bothered.

Abigail let out a small puff of air that would have been a snort in someone with lesser manners, and opened the door. She was, of course, in her night gown, her long brown hair held back in a loose braid. Half a dozen lights flickered from the ceiling, each glowing with the bluish silver of her magic.

 _It’s the color of ice_ , Desdemona thought as she stared at the ceiling in wonder. Despite spending her formative years at one of the country’s best academies for magic, getting Abigail to actually cast a spell was like pulling teeth.

“Do you have any idea what time it is?” Abigail asked.

“Do you?” Desdemona countered, not missing a beat. She sighed dramatically and changed the subject. “I can’t believe we’re already leaving for home. It seems like we just got started.”

There was no hiding the wistfulness in her voice, and Abigail gave her one of her curious little looks, the one she had picked up from Father that made Desdemona feel like a bug about to be pinned to a specimen board. “It’s been a wonderful trip, but to be truthful I miss home.”

“I’m glad you came with us,” Desdemona said.

A small frown joined the look, and Abigail asked, “You thought I wouldn’t?”

“I don’t know,” Desdemona said. “You’ve been so busy with your studies, I half-feared you’d enroll at the university before we ever got started.”

“Desdemona, I’m not going to university.”

A proper young lady didn’t  _gape_ , but Desdemona managed the next closest expression. Suddenly her legs weren’t strong enough to keep her standing, and she found the corner of Abigail’s bed. “You’re not? But…you’ve put so much effort into your studies. It’s all you ever do.”

Abigail looked down at her feet, her hands suddenly restless in a nervous gesture that Desdemona did recognize from their many misadventures together. She was uncomfortable and embarrassed, and while making her feel that way hadn’t been Desdemona’s intention, she just  _had_  to know what was going on.

“Abigail, please. Talk to me,” she said, her voice low. “For goodness sake, we’ve been traveling together for six months and you never once breathed a word—“

“You never asked,” Abigail interrupted sharply, her grip on her book turning her knuckles white. “Did you honestly think Mother would let me pursue my Mastery? All three of us are to be engaged or married by the year’s end or there will be a reckoning.”

“I—but that’s ridiculous! Felix is the only one of us with his eyes set on anyone. Unless…” Desdemona took a sharp breath. “No one is courting you, are they? You would have at least told me that much.”

_Wouldn’t you?_

“Of course no one is courting me,” Abigail said. “They’re all too busy courting  _you._ ”

She sat heavily in an overstuffed armchair while Desdemona, with complete disregard for decorum, allowed her mouth to fall open with an almost audible  _pop._  The soft light cast shadows over Abigail’s eyes, darkening them to the deep grey of a summer storm. Abigail was  _angry_. She couldn’t remember the last time she had gotten angry, least of all at  _her._

And, contrarily, Desdemona found herself getting angry right back. Pausing only to regather her wits, she lifted her chin imperiously and said, “A few dances does not a courtship make. You should know that, for all the reading you do.”

“It does when it’s the Duke’s son doing the dancing,” Abigail said. “Or so Mother says.”

Again Desdemona was spellshocked. She had spent only an evening with the Duke of Brenin’s eldest son. He was a handsome enough young man, witty and charming—not to mention the best dancer Desdemona had the pleasure of partnering with over the course of this whirlwind tour. And rich. Stinking, filthy rich with enough gold in his coffers to afford a dozen wives.

But.

“His lordship is a cad who beats his servants and makes a habit of stringing along girls with promises he has no intentions of keeping,” Desdemona said, eyes narrowing. “I would sooner marry a pig.”

This time it was Abigail who was surprised. “Then why dance with him?”

“Because he’s a good dancer!” Desdemona exclaimed. Then, a little sheepishly. “And because I didn’t know how he treated his servants. As soon as I did I cut off all contact. Likely as not he’s already moved on to his next conquest. Surely Mother knows that.”

“I don’t think she does,” Abigail said. “I didn’t.”

“Then she’s deluding herself,” Desdemona said. She flopped back on Abigail’s bed and laced her fingers over her stomach. “Besides, quick tongue aside he was an idiot. He would bore you to tears.”

“I fail to see how that matters,” Abigail said.

“Any future husband of mine is going to have to be intelligent enough to sit through a conversation with you,” Desdemona said. “I’ll accept nothing less.”

She grinned suddenly. “Intelligent enough to converse with you, charming enough to survive afternoon tea with Mother, courageous enough to interrupt Father when he’s in his study…”

“Oh, stop it,” Abigail said, laughing despite herself.

“Courageous enough to interrupt Father, and…I don’t know…the patience to endure a day of Felix’s inflated ego. You see, Abby, my future husband must be peerless.”

“And also imaginary, by the sound of it,” Abigail said dryly, but Desdemona could hear her smile. Cheered by this, she rolled over to face her sister properly.

“And Mother wonders why I’m still single,” Desdemona quipped. There was a moment of comfortable silence, and she said more seriously, “I’ll not settle, Abigail. And certainly not to appease Mother’s ridiculous timetable for our future.”

“Good,” Abigail said quietly. “You deserve a better man than him.”

She traced the lettering of her book cover with a finger, her girlish awkwardness back in full force. Once again Desdemona could feel the walls between them rising. They had spoken more tonight than they had since leaving home, but instead of picking up their friendship from where they had left it, Desdemona was only more aware of how distant they had become.

“Was there someone you had your eye on?” Desdemona asked, gently probing the area that was so clearly sensitive. “I saw you were chatty with that mage at the crystal forest. Did he match you with one of his sons?”

Abigail sighed. “No. Master Jameson regretfully informed that his youngest son has turned out to be completely useless while his eldest was lost at sea attempting to circumnavigate the globe.”

She fell again into silence, and it stretched so long that Desdemona threatened to break under the strain of it. It was hard to be patient when Abigail got like this, fingers twitching as if she could pluck the right words to say out of the air. Desdemona thought that sometimes her sister’s mind worked too fast for her mouth to keep up with, and so she stayed silent to avoid saying anything rash. It was admirable, really, but also maddening beyond belief.

“There was a boy at school, but nothing came of it,” she finally admitted. “We sat near each other in the library sometimes, and I helped tutor him during exams. He…he made me laugh.”

“And…?” Desdemona prompted.

“And nothing,” Abigail said. “When I finally managed to speak to him in public he acted like he didn’t recognize me. He didn’t want anyone to know I helped him study.”

Desdemona bolted upright, outraged on her sister’s behalf. “How  _dare_  he!” Then, realizing this must have happened months ago, if not a year or longer, said, “You never said.”

Not in any of her letters, not during holidays or after returning home. Desdemona felt suddenly helpless. What else was Abigail hiding?

“You would have told me to slap him,” Abigail said. “Or put itching powder down the back of his shirt.”

“I am not a child, Abigail,” Desdemona said primly. “I would have made sure everyone in that school knew that he went to a  _girl_  for help with his homework.”

“And solved nothing in the process.”

“It would have made me feel better,” Desdemona said with a sniff.

Abigail laughed a little at that, ducking her head to hide her smile. “It was just a crush, Dess. Nothing to get worked up about.”

“It is when Mother’s trying to marry us off,” Desdemona said. “Are you sure that’s what she said? I thought we had a little more time than that.”

Abigail looked Desdemona. The spark of anger was gone, but there was a  _weight_  behind her gaze, like she could pierce right through a person with her eyes alone. She had gotten that look from Father, too.

“I suggested we take a trip last year, and Mother laughed me off,” she said.

“You did?”

“Nothing as grand as this, but yes,” Abigail said. “It’s only when you came home this last time and saw how much you’d changed that she agreed.”

“I’ve not changed,” Desdemona protested.

“You’re a lady now, Dess,” Abigail said. “I mean, you’ve always been one, but now you act like it. You go to balls and talk with your friends about fashion and have all the eligible men wrapped around your little finger.”

“I do not.”

“I’ve seen them slavering over you, like puppies on a leash,” Abigail said, a note of bitterness in her voice. “You could have your pick of any of them. All you have to do is  _pick_.”

Desdemona fisted her hands into the bedsheets. “Just because I know how to have a little fun doesn’t mean I want to get  _married._  I don’t understand the rush when Felix gets to wait until he’s nearly thirty before settling down. Gods, Abigail, do you know what I learned while you were off studying magic?” She waited for her sister to answer, and when she didn’t said scathingly, “I learned  _how to play the game_. Throwing tantrums never got me anywhere, but if I can batten my eyelashes and pout my into getting my way I will.

“Why should I settle down now? If this trip has taught me anything it’s that there’s so much I don’t know. I want to see the world, Abby, and I won’t be able to do that with a husband and children.” She whirled towards her sister. “Why shouldn’t you be allowed to study at the university if that’s what you want? You’re  _brilliant_ , and if men are intimidated by that it’s their loss.”

Desdemona forced herself to stop before she began to shout, and buried her face in her hands. “It’s not fair.”

There was a rustle of cloth, and then the creaking of bedsprings as Abigail sat next to her. She had left her book at the armchair and looked down at her hands as if she didn’t know what to do without its familiar weight. Hesitantly she reached over and rubbed Desdemona’s neck like she did when they were small.

Desdemona leaned into Abigail, her eyes prickling with tears. She forced them away wrathfully. “I’m sorry, Abby. I’ve been a horrid sister towards you. I hope you forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Abigail said. Then, more softly. “But if it’s any consolation, I’m sorry too.”

They sat like that for a long time, and Desdemona only stirred when she heard the clock strike four. In an hour the world would wake and demand that Desdemona act like a proper young gentlewoman. The Wrights would begin their journey home, the place Desdemona was beginning to think more and more as a gilded cage.

“Do you want to go to the roof?” she asked Abigail. “You can see the sun rise over the city.”

“I would like that.”

Silently and quickly Abigail gathered her shoes and a shawl, before dousing the magical lights hovering over the ceiling. Between the two of them they were able to navigate to the roof of the hotel without difficulty. The spent the hour before sunrise talking about anything and everything except the one subject that had suddenly become so pressing to their lives.

Desdemona was just starting to feel sleepy as the first rays of golden light spilled over the horizon. Huddling next to Abigail to ward off the morning chill she said, “I’m going to see the world, Abby. I’ll do whatever it takes.”

“I know.”

That simple affirmation stilled the troubled waters of her heart, and her eyes fluttered closed. Perhaps things between them weren’t as simple as they had been in the past. They were adults now, with burdens and responsibilities that they never could have imagined as children.

Life wasn’t fair. Desdemona knew that now in a way she never had before. But she was nothing if not strong-willed, and if the world wasn’t going to change for her, then it was up to her to change the world.  


	4. A Trust Broken

It used to be that when Abigail worked with magic, nothing else mattered.

Hours would slip by like water through her fingers. She scarcely noticed the ticking of the clock or missed meals or her mother’s disappointed glance when she forgot yet again to make an appearance for afternoon tea. Days were spent poring through books or fussing over numbers and she would forget everything else. In those brief moments of reprieve from the stress of everyday life, Abigail almost felt normal.

Everything changed on the last days of the family’s extended vacation, when after years of distance she and Desdemona reconciled once more. But for all that, Father was impatient to resume his research, forgoing leisure to conspire into the small hours of the morning with Abigail. Together they made lists of work that needed to be done when they returned home and brainstormed possible avenues of experimentation that Father’s newly-formed theory would require before it could be accepted by the scientific and magical communities.

Those small moments captured with her sister during the day and her father at night were the only thing that distracted from the ache in Abigail’s chest that throbbed every time she thought of what the future held, both for her and her family. She wondered sometimes if she was the only who felt the tension, the winds of change stirring just over the horizon. Dess and Mother had never been so close, spending hours shopping, and gossiping, and whatever it was normal women did. They were abuzz with Felix’s upcoming nuptials, with Mother in particular giddy with excitement to see her son married off at last.

Abigail found it impossible to keep abreast of the latest trends in society and fashion, and the thought of helping her brother organize his guest list sounded like the sort of torture that was forbidden under international law. With the family finally returned home and Felix nearly settled, Mother turned her full attention on Desdemona. Abigail shuddered to think what would happen after a match had been made for her twin.

 _If,_ a small voice in the back of her mind corrected. Abigail had taken to watching Dess during the rare moments she ventured out of her room, unable to forget the promise she made during their last days traveling together. Desdemona had no desire to rush into marriage. She enjoyed the freedoms singleness afforded and desired to go abroad. She, of course, had the good sense not to tell Mother any of that, and Abigail dreaded the day when her plans came to fruition.

In the meantime, it was difficult not be jealous of how effortless Desdemona’s interactions with Mother were. Abigail knew without being told that her mother found her to be something of a disappointment. She’d long-given up arguing with Father over his decision to allow Abigail to study magic, but made sure to let her daughter know her disapproval in a dozen, quieter ways, each sticking like a barb under Abigail’s skin.

There was a part of Abigail that wondered if her mother was right. She _didn’t_ fit in the cog that was her place in society. She had become acutely aware of that during the family’s travels, and as more time passed this inadequacy bloomed from a vague irritation she hardly noticed to a burden that kept her awake at night.

It wasn’t even that she was against the idea of getting married and having children, but how in the world was she supposed to attract a husband when balls and galas and dinner parties were trials that sorely tested her nerves? People exhausted her in a way magic never did. That was something neither Mother nor Desdemona understood, but at least Dess didn’t hold it against her like it were some personal failing.

Abigail jumped a little as the clock struck midnight, each peal cutting through her nightly musing. The magical globes of light floating above her desk vanished, plunging her room into darkness. Sighing, she set the pages of parchment she had been reading on her desk and found her way to her bed. The timed lights had been Dess’s idea, meant to keep her from staying up the night working.

It took longer for the thoughts whirling in her mind to settle. Father would be sending his paper on the magical potential lithium for peer review before the end of the year, and he was determined for it to be above reproach. Then their work would truly begin, sifting through his previous research to see what was still viable after the change of medium and what would have to be done afresh. Father was optimistic that he could have his first prototype finished within five years; Abigail thought with just the two of them it would be closer to ten. But perhaps with a working theory he would finally partner with a proper mage.

The possibility was both exhilarating and terrifying. Abigail was just as eager as her father to see if his ideas could expand past the boundaries of theory, but was equally terrified of what would happen when her father no longer needed her. Abigail knew her limitations. She was a twenty year old girl with a hodgepodge education. Her knowledge of magic was limited to one, highly specific field of study that her father was soon going to outgrow. Without further schooling she would not be able to follow him much longer.

And then what? Father wanted what was best for her just as much as Mother did, and that meant getting married. This, letting her help him with his research, was an indulgence. Nothing more. And when that was over she would go back to being awkward, hopeless Abigail stuck in a world where she did not belong.

Abigail stared into the blackness, feeling almost sick with worry and anxiety. It would be hours before she fretted herself into a fitful slumber, not realizing that the future she dreaded was closer than she ever could have imagined.

* * *

Abigail woke earlier than intended. In previous months she would have pulled herself out of bed and began reading, but she had promised Dess that she would try not to sequester herself to her room like Father did his study. That meant visiting with her sister at least once a day, and getting out of the house at least three times a week. The former was easier to manage than the latter, and so Abigail plodded to Desdemona’s room, stifling a yawn as she shuffled down the quiet hallway of the estate.

She knocked on Desdemona’s door—two sharp raps, a pause, and then two more. These days she used their childhood code out of habit rather than necessity, but she could tell that Dess appreciated the sentiment.

There was no answer, but Abigail was not discouraged. Between the two of them Dess was the heavier sleeper, and it was still early. She went to retreat back to her bedroom when a servant came careening up the stairway.

Abigail blinked sleep-crusted eyes as the servant rushed past without so much as a greeting, hurrying in the direction of Father’s study. Curious, she followed at a much more reasonable pace.

Father was standing in the doorway, already dressed and hat in hand. Felix stood awkwardly to the side near Mother. The servant could only look at her expectant gaze for a moment before dropping his head, and she burst into tears.

Abigail knew at once that Desdemona had run away. She stopped dead in her tracks as the world started to spin. Dess was _gone_. She hadn’t even said goodbye.

Had she missed the signs? Abigail knew that her sister wanted her freedom, but in all their talks it had always felt like a distant possibility. Dess made no mention of concrete plans, or how she might go about making them a reality. There had been no arguments between her and Mother that would have driven her away. There had been surprisingly little friction between them at all since graduating from finishing school.

What had she missed? What had she been too blind to see?

“Abigail!”

Abigail startled back to reality. Father had moved directly in front of her and had apparently been trying to get her attention for quite some time. He studied her as he would a disagreeable piece of data, with his eyes narrowed and the corner of his lips turned downward. Abigail swallowed hard. Father knew her better than anyone, even Desdemona. She wasn’t sure she could keep a secret from his piercing gaze.

Perhaps that’s why Dess hadn’t told her anything. She knew she couldn’t be trusted.

The thought nearly made Abigail sick.

“Your sister has gone missing,” Father said, his tone as brisk and curt as always. “I’m going to look for her. Do you have any idea where she might have gone?”

“No,” Abigail breathed.

He nodded once, sharply, and turned to leave. “If there is any news, you know how to contact me.”

Abigail almost couldn’t believe her ears. Her father had just given her permission to use magic. All her life her magic had always been a hidden thing, hardly secret but never spoken of outside the walls of Father’s study. Mother was ashamed of it, and among his peers even Father was the smallest bit embarrassed that it was a daughter, not a son, that inherited his love for the magical arts.

“I will,” Abigail’s treacherous lips promised while her heart tore in two. Desdemona deserved her freedom. There were plenty of women—good, _elvish_ women­—who enjoyed their season before settling on a spouse.

Dess needed time. She was too much her mother’s daughter not to come home when she was good and ready. The more Father pursued the farther she would run, just to be contrary. It had been that way since they were children and Dess cut off all her hair out of spite.

Abigail felt a heavy hand on her shoulder and craned her head to see Felix’s flinty gaze. He looked down at her, his eyes reminding her so much of Father’s. “She didn’t tell you anything?”

“No,” Abigail repeated. “I had no idea.”

Her stomach twisted into knots at the half-truth, and Felix cursed under his breath. “The servants thought we had been burgled. She ran off with a sack full of silver.”

“What? _How?_ ”

“That’s the mystery,” Felix said grimly. “The gargoyles haven’t moved. None of the alarm spells triggered.”

“They wouldn’t,” Abigail said, eyebrows furrowing together. “Dess is a member of the household. They wouldn’t register it as a theft.”

Felix grunted, and turned to where Mother was still weeping. “Hopefully Father finds her soon. Damn that girl, thinking of no one but herself.”

Abigail pulled away from his grasp, feeling her cheeks flush as anger blossomed in her chest. If anyone was selfish it was Mother for pushing Dess into her predestined role before she was ready. Felix had no idea the pressure they were under or the scrutiny they faced for even toeing the line of what was expected of them. Dess was the most courageous person Abigail knew for taking her happiness into her own hands. Gods only knew how impossible it was for her to do the same.

“Father will find her,” Felix said soothingly, mistaking her fury for distress. “All will be made right.”

“Are you forgetting who you’re talking about, Felix?” Abigail said. “Dess is the most stubborn creature this side of the Rhannu Mor, and she’s has had plenty of time to think about what she’s about to do. If she was able to plan her escape without any of us the wiser, what makes you think she’s going to let herself be found, let alone be led home like a puppy on its afternoon walk?”

“You say that as if it’s a good thing.”

Abigail was silent as a servant led Mother back to her bedroom, imagining for a moment what it would be like never to see her sister again. It was a bleak picture, but nothing she hadn’t imagined in the many sleepless nights since first hearing of Dess’s intentions.

“The facts are what they are,” Abigail said quietly. “There’s nothing any of us can do to change them.”

* * *

Father didn’t find her that day or the next. His temper was short and his tongue sharp as he explored every avenue he could think of, but for the moment it seemed like Dess had outwitted him. That, perhaps more than anything, seemed to befuddle and frustrate him, and those who were wise knew it was best to keep their distance.

Abigail was used to her father’s temperament and knew how to weather his moods, but Mother…Mother was inconsolable. At first she insisted Desdemona had been kidnapped, then she imagined a grand scenario where she had run off to be married, first to a man of grand importance and then to a scoundrel who romanced her for his own unscrupulous means.

It was strange and frightening to see her mother, who to Abigail always seemed a paragon of reason and womanly virtue, brought down so low. Even during her arguments with Father she had always maintained in control of her facilities, but for two days Abigail could only watch as her mother was hardly able to function.   

It was distressing enough that Abigail almost told her parents of Desdemona’s plans. _Almost._ She couldn’t stand to watch Mother fret over Dess’s health and wellbeing, nor Felix fret over Mother for the same. Even Father showed his concern in his own way, promising time and again that no matter what happened, he _would_ bring Desdemona home. His words mollified her, if only for a little while, and in those moments Mother would almost look like herself again.

They were all committed to bringing Desdemona back no matter the cost. Abigail felt completely disconnected from the eagerness, as if she were watching them through a sheet of glass. Orders were barked to servants, spells were whispered into looking glasses, and Father even reached out to his colleagues at the University. None of them ever asked what had driven Desdemona away in the first place.

On the third day, Father had exhausted his options. At the breakfast table he looked over his remaining family, weary and haggard, and was forced to admit defeat.

“I think…I think it’s time to involve the authorities. I can’t keep this quiet any longer.”

Silence settled over the dining room like a lead blanket. Abigail was sure her parents could hear her heart pounding in her chest. She glanced to where her mother sat and saw her bottom lip quivering. She looked beyond exhausted, her face wan and her grey eyes bloodshot from countless hours crying.

“Whatever it takes to bring her home.”

* * *

Abigail didn’t know what she was supposed to do. There was no sorting through the myriad of warring thoughts and emotions that were battling for dominance within her. Everything was happening too quickly. Dess hadn’t given her time to prepare, and in a moment of weakness Abigail hated her for it.

She immediately regretted that thought and was ashamed of herself for even thinking it. Dess had every reason not to confide with her. Abigail was sure that she would not have had the willpower to keep such a secret from her parents. No one believed that Dess had gone without giving _some_ clue as to where she was headed, and Abigail was under enormous pressure from all sides to give up what she knew.

Even Maudie had asked at the behest of one or both of her parents, taking away the one person Abigail had left to turn to for advice.

The stress weighed on Abigail until she felt like she was breaking, but through it all one thing became clear as day: Her family didn’t care what Desdemona wanted, and if she came back she would never have another chance at freedom.

It was with this knowledge firmly implanted in her mind that Abigail found herself standing in front of her father’s study. She felt like a little girl again, only instead of carrying a handful of word problems that had never been meant for her, she was torn between her duty to her father and her love for her sister. She stood at his door for an indeterminate amount of time, staring but not really seeing. She could _feel_ the energy swirling into a web of complex wards and protective spells. Abigail placed the palm of her hand against the polished wood, taking comfort in the familiar sensation of her father’s magic. There were a few wisps of her own power mixed seamlessly with his, almost forgotten beneath the stronger threads that bound her father’s spells.

She had always supported him. Abigail trusted her father, and she felt safe working beside him. They understood each other’s particularities and had long-since developed a comfortable rhythm of teaching, working, and communicating with one another. In this room Father was more than her father, he was her mentor, her guide and confidant, filling the void left by Desdemona when they grew apart.

But now Desdemona was back, and Abigail wasn’t sure there was room in her heart for both of them. Not with each of them pulling her in different directions.

Biting her lip to keep from crying, Abigail knocked on the door. She heard Father rise from his chair, and stepped back as it swung open.

“We need to talk,” Abigail said before he had a chance to speak. She kept her hands clenched into fists, feeling her nails cut into her palms to keep them from fidgeting.

Father opened the door for her, and Abigail took the seat opposite his. “I assume this is about your sister?” he asked.

“Yes,” Abigail said.

“So you’ve finally decided to tell me what you know.”

His dispassionate tone cut Abigail to the core. “She didn’t tell me she was leaving. I would have told you if she had.”

“Then what is it?” he said. “I need to go to the city as soon as possible. There’s no telling what sort of trouble Desdemona has gotten herself into. She could be hurt, or homeless, or worse.”

Abigail swallowed hard, but her mouth was dry. “You would have heard if something of that sort happened. Father, please…Desdemona wants this. She’s not happy here.”

“What Desdemona wants is irrelevant!” Father snapped. “Have you seen your poor mother? I thought you of all people would be eager to have her back home, safe and sound.”

“I do,” Abigail said, close to tears. “I…I want to see her more than anything. I hate that Mother’s like this, and you and Felix too. But surely there’s some compromise—“

“Abigail Marie Wright, do you hear what you’re saying? If anything this juvenile stunt for attention proves that your sister is _incapable_ of deciding what is best for herself and her future. This has dragged on long enough. It ends, today if I can manage it.”

“And then what?” Abigail asked. “What are you going to do to fix this? You can’t keep her locked up in her own home, and she’ll sabotage any suitors Mother arranges for her. You _know_ how she is. It will be miserable for everyone. Dess is a grown woman. Surely she has some say in how she lives her life.”

Father stared at her like she’d grown a second head, and Abigail felt like she was two inches tall and about ready to be stepped on. Shrinking in on herself, she said, “I don’t want anyone to do anything rash and make things worse than they already are.”

“Rash? You think ensuring Desdemona’s safety is _rash?_ ”

“Of course not—“

“Your sister has no idea what she’s getting herself into,” Father interrupted. “Do you think she could tell you the price of a loaf of bread, let alone how to cook a meal for herself? There’s no one out there that’s going to dress her hair or tighten her stays. She’s gone to gods know where, vulnerable to gods knows what, and likely to be taken advantage of by the first person who sees that she’s lugging around a sack of silver!”

“But—“

“Whatever fairytale land Desdemona has built for herself is nothing but a deluded fantasy. She’s failed to grasp that everyone is born into their place in society. She has the responsibility and _privilege_ to pick a husband from some of the finest young men in the country. And even if she chooses spinsterhood over marriage, that’s no reason to run away and play peasant! Everyone has a role to play or the world falls into chaos, and Desdemona’s place is _here._ ”

“You can’t honestly believe that,” Abigail said numbly. “You never would have taught me magic if you did.”

Father stiffened as if slapped, all the color draining from his face. He walked to where Abigail sat petrified and placed his hands on her shoulders. “You aren’t your sister. People like you…like us…our purpose is to drag society forward, kicking and screaming if we must.”

There was something in his tone that sent a shiver down Abigail’s spine. “But what if Desdemona’s purpose is to prove that a woman doesn’t need to be married to live a full life? Father, I know you’re afraid for her, and I am too. I just don’t understand why she can’t have a little time. Felix is _twenty-eight_. If Dess could even have half that to figure out what she wants then I think she could be happy.”

The grip on her shoulders tightened. “This isn’t about Desdemona’s happiness.”

“Then what is it about?” Abigail cried, tearing away from him and springing to her feet. “Her future? The family name? Tell me, because I don’t—“

“ _Silence!”_

Abigail’s mouth shut with an audible snap, responding to the magic laced in that single command. Her hand went instinctively to her throat in protest, but no noise came out. She couldn’t speak at all.

Her father had used magic against her. Abigail took a step backward and stumbled against the edge of his desk. She had never seen him so angry. His displeasure was etched into every line of his face, and there was a dark shadow cast over his eyes as he tried to gather himself under control.

“I have tried to reason with you,” he said coldly. “I have been more than patient. But it’s obvious that whatever ridiculous idea your sister has put into your head has overcome your common sense. I’m disappointed, Abigail. I taught you better than this.”

He made it to the door before Abigail could move. The silencing spell was hastily made and sloppily cast, as Father’s magic often was when he didn’t have time to prepare. Breaking it was as simple as using a loose string to unravel a wool sock, and as Father reached for the handle, Abigail shouted the only thing she could think of.

“I’ll tell her the truth about Jean Beauregard.”

Father froze in place. “What did you just say?”

Gathering her last scraps of courage, Abigail straightened herself. “If…if you bring Desdemona back, I’ll tell her what you did to Jean Beauregard. I’ll tell anyone who will listen that you used his research without his consent, and when he protested you had him expelled. For all her supposed faults, Desdemona has nearly as many friends as Mother does. Who knows what they would do with a piece of gossip as tantalizing as that.”

Father’s face went ashen. “You would ruin me, just so your sister could ruin herself?”

“You don’t know that,” Abigail said. “You think that Desdemona has no idea what she’s getting herself into, but I think she knows _exactly_ the cost, and is willing to pay it anyway.”

Father stared at her without speaking, and the longer he was silent the angrier he became. The grey in his cheeks quickly reddened, before shifting to an ugly puce that extended from his hairline down to his neck. For the briefest moment Abigail thought he was going to lash out in a rage. Over the course of her young life there had been many, _many_ times she had been intimidated by her father, but never had she had reason to been afraid of him.

She was afraid now.

The hairs on the nape of her neck prickled as the energies of the room responded to his fury, stirring up a faint breeze that circled around him as if he were the eye of a hurricane. The force of his presence made Abigail’s legs turn to jelly, and she could barely trust herself to stay upright. Abigail opened her mouth to apologize, to try to take back what she said, but she couldn’t. She meant every word.

“Get out,” Father said, his voice deathly calm.  

Abigail was more than happy to obey, but once again her traitorous mouth moved before her brain could command it to shut up. “What about Dess—“

“ _I said get out!”_

Abigail ran. She almost kept running until she found her sister so they could go away forever and never come back, but instead her feet found the familiar haven of her bedroom. She slammed the door behind her and with shaking fingers turned the lock. She tried to activate the one ward she knew, but it was impossible. She was too terrified to even think.

Sliding to the floor, Abigail sat with her back to her door and covered her head with her hands. She gasped for air, but her chest felt painfully tight and blood roared in her ears.

She couldn’t believe that she’d threatened her own father. No, it was worse than that. She had betrayed him. He would never trust her again with any of his secrets, let alone allow her to continue aiding him in his research.

Tears fell down her face as Abigail began to sob. She was a fool to think she could talk to her father and a fool to think she could help her sister. The conversation replayed mercilessly, her mind highlighting every stupid, _idiotic_ word that had come out of her mouth. It became harder to breathe, to think, until Abigail felt like she was drowning on dry land.

All the while she waited for her father to come find her, to yell at her or to say that he’d found Desdemona at last. Dread replaced panic and settled into the pit of her stomach, but hours passed and Father never came.

But neither did Desdemona. Abigail’s threat had its intended effect, and Father did not pursue her any further. It was a small victory that came at a great price, and Abigail would spend the rest of her life wondering what would have happened if she had just let her father bring Desdemona home.


	5. A Sister Reunited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I’m almost working backwards with this sequence of chapters, but this is one I’ve had in mind since starting this project. Unless something surprising happens the next update should be focused on Isabella, and the update after that on Mrs. Wright. Gotta let someone other than the twins have a chance to shine, lol. 
> 
> Lastly, I’ve drawing a bit lately and did a couple of headshots on the twins I’m more or less happy with, if you can ignore some of the coloring because I literally don’t know what I’m doing in that regard. Also I forgot my own timeline and the ages are off, but no one needs to know that but me (and whoever reads this)
> 
> https://creative-type.tumblr.com/post/188314536476/

Desdemona Wright thought herself a practical woman. She wasn’t the sort who was content to let her dreams be dreams, or be kowtowed by another’s opinion, or let her future be dictated by anyone other than herself. It required a certain amount of self-awareness, the ability to take an idea, break it down to its smallest part, and see it to fruition. She didn’t dwell in the past or make-believe herself in an imagined future. Desdemona was very much a person of the present, determined to get done that day what had to be done and take the rest as it came.

She did not want to do what had to be done.

There was a chill in the air as she made her first steps down the flagstone pathway of the asylum. The leaves were changing from green to gold to brown, and the grass fading to a brittle yellow as the verdant life was sucked from the world around her, autumn making its inexorable march towards winter.

Desdemona shivered, but it had little to do with the cold. She wrapped her shawl tighter around her shoulders, forcing one foot in front of the other. She did not know what she would find. Answers, hopefully, after more than seven years of not knowing.

It had taken her that long before she decided she even _wanted_ to know. Desdemona Wright might have thought herself a practical woman, but she _knew_ herself to be a vindictive one. She spent her childhood learning at the feet of a master, and was just as capable as her mother of holding onto a grudge well past the point of absurdity. The rejection of her sister, and her subsequent disowning, was no small slight. For years thinking of her family kindled a vengeful wrath within her. Spite alone drove her forward during those most difficult times; Desdemona refused to lose, because she couldn’t let them win. It was as simple as that.

It was difficult to say what and when changed her mind. Perhaps a part of her always wondered, the same part that was hurt most by Abigail’s refusal to come with her. In her sister’s defense, they had never really discussed the possibility of Abigail following Desdemona as she sought to her fortune apart from the society that birthed them. It had been too risky at the time to talk about anything at all. And in Desdemona’s few reflective moments she was forced to acknowledge, somewhat guiltily, that it had been unfair to spring such a monumentous decision on Abigail without warning. Not when she could hardly decide what she wanted for breakfast without careful deliberation. 

And the longer Desdemona wondered, the more the questions chaffed like an improperly fitted pair of knickers until she couldn’t stand it any longer. She had to know the truth, feelings and consequences be damned.

She arrived at the gate of the asylum, the air tingling with magical energy. Protective spells, she guessed, wards to keep who needed in _in_ and who needed out _out._ Desdemona wasn’t sure if she fit into either category and didn’t want to dwell on it, reading each word from the placard set into the gate slowly as she stalled for time. 

_Parkridge Asylum for the Insane and Mentally Disturbed._

Each word hit like a slap in the face,and Desdemona was beginning to regret her own bullheadedness. For a moment she could only stand, vacillating at the threshold that separated the normal world from...whatever lay beyond those gates. Desdemona knew little enough about asylums and the sort of people who lived in them, but she heard stories. Once, when she first left home and was barely managing to stay off the streets, her apartment complex had been accosted by an escaped resident of such a facility. The man screamed nonsense and ran around stark naked in the middle of a thunderstorm. It took two hours for authorities to take him away safely, but the memory shook her even now.

Parkridge looked nothing like the horrors the rumors spoke of. The building itself was made of pale red brick and somewhat utilitarian in design, but the courtyard was spacious enough to compensate, with a handsome little flowerbeds strategically placed in an effort to feel homey. This late in the year there wasn’t much in the way of flowers, but Desdemona could appreciate the sentiment. It was the _nice_ asylum, the one people paid good money to send their loved ones. It was a relief. When Desdemona first heard the news she feared her family had left her sister to rot someplace horrible.

But it was still an asylum. Normal people didn’t come around to visit. Sane people weren’t sent here for treatment. Something terrible had happened to Abigail, and Desdemona didn’t know if she was brave enough to face it.

* * *

 

Desdemona was greeted with a startled look by the receptionist, who after a brief explanation guided her to a sitting room to meet her sister. It had been so long since she had been in the same space as Abigail, she almost forgot how similar they looked and the affect that had on others. The poor woman working the desk stammered an apology, saying she didn’t known Abigail _had_ a sister, let alone one that would be visiting.

That stung, but Desdemona understood. She’d spent the last seven years pretending her family didn’t exist, too.

The asylum was quieter then Desdemona expected, almost comfortable save for the faint smell of antiseptic that hung in the air like a stubborn fog. It seemed smaller on the inside, more personable. The employees and patients she passed greeted each other by name, and several stared at her as if she’d suddenly sprung a second head. More than once the receptionist guiding her whispered, “A guest for Miss Wright,” as if that explained everything. Which apparently it did, for there were no more questions.

When they neared their destination, Desdemona had to ask, “How...how is she doing?”

The receptionist smiled apologetically. “I don’t get told things like that, and even if I did I wouldn’t be allowed to say. Your father was very specific, we’re not to give out details to anyone other than him. Of course you can ask Miss Wright for yourself, I’m just not allowed.”

 _But he’s fine with Abby receiving unexpected visitors?_ Desdemona wondered, simultaneously irritated by and grateful for her father’s paranoid need for privacy.

“I understand,” Desdemona said. “I’ve just...been away for quite some time. You know how it is, getting news secondhand from letters. My mother doesn’t understand the finer particularities of the mind, and I find her explanations are never as precise as I’d like them to be.”

“I didn’t realize Mrs. Wright took such interest in Miss Wright’s treatment,” the receptionist said, surprised. If she was suspicious of Desdemona’s bold-faced lie she did an excellent job of hiding it, all-but confirming in Desdemona’s mind that the faculty was not aware of the true reason she’d stayed away all this time.

Mother never had liked scandal. It was up to Desdemona to use that to her advantage.

“I see how Mother could give that impression, but I assure you she does care very much in her own way.” _About her image, at least._

“Yes, well, it’s not my place to say any more. She’s sitting in the back corner, you’re free to visit until three o’clock.”

Desdemona gave her thanks and paused one last time, just long enough to make herself nervous all over again. The churning in her stomach was almost painful, and she dried sweaty palms against her skirts. She steadied herself with a deep breath, then stepped through the threshold of the sitting room.

Abigail looked much as Desdemona remembered her, facial features nearly identical to what she saw in the mirror every day, yet wearing an expression that was so different than her own. She sat curled on a loveseat with a book in her lap and her head propped up with a hand. A sunbeam from a nearby window made a halo of light around her head, reflecting the subtle shades of red in her dark brown hair. Desdemona had always been the tiniest bit jealous that her sister was the one to inherit their mother’s most striking features, leaving her relatively plain in comparison. But Abigail was always so uncomfortable in her own skin, and there was no one on the planet who could convince her that she’d grown into a beautiful young woman.

She was a shade too pale to be considered healthy, but she’d been that way since she was a girl, always preferring Father’s gloomy study to going out of doors. No, what surprised Desdemona most was the lack of awkwardness. Abigail’s hands were still, her expression serene. She was aspeaceful as Desdemona could ever remember and by all appearances perfectly sane.

So why was she _here?_

Desdemona had to fight to keep herself from fidgeting, and the irony of their reversed positions was not lost on her. She moistened suddenly dry lips. It was now or never. Rapping her knuckles lightly on the doorframe (two taps, a pause, then two more) to announce her presence, she managed to say,

“May I come in?”

Abigail looked up from her book. She blinked once, twice. What little color she had left her face, grey eyes growing as wide as saucers. The book tumbled from her hands, the impact of it hitting the floor making them both to flinch.

“Desdemona?”

”In the flesh.”

There was a heartbeat of silence. “This can’t be real.”

Desdemona forced herself to smile. “Sorry, I already pinched myself to check. May I...may I come in?”

“I don’t understand,” Abigail said hoarsely.

“I’m not sure I do either. That’s why I’m here. I want to understand.”

“Oh gods.” Her breathing quickened, catching in her chest. Fear entered her wide grey eyes. “Oh gods, you can’t...you shouldn’t be here. Does Father know?”

“Of course not.” Desdemona said, offended that she would even suggested it. “He disowned me, remember?”

Fear transformed to panic. Abigail shot to her feet, raking her hands through her hair. She started toward Desdemona then abruptly stopped, swaying on her feet as she debated whether she should approach or run away from her sister.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Abigail repeated.

“Neither should you,” Desdemona said. Her voice cracked as tears welled in the corners of her eyes. She felt so helpless, more then she’d ever been in her life. “Abigail, what happened?”

* * *

 

They ended up outside, settling down at one of the stone benches overlooking the modest flowerbeds. The cool air felt good against the heat rising in Desdemona’s cheeks, and she could tell Abigail wanted privacy from prying, curious eyes. They sat with as much distance between them the bench would allow, each staring straight ahead.

Neither spoke, the only sound coming from the wind rustling through drying, dead leaves. Desdemona thought they might sit like that forever, turning to stone themselves. They’d be sorry excuses for statues, she thought.

It was ridiculous and pathetic. Abigail was her sister. Their bond was stronger than blood, or at least it had been once upon a time.

“I talked with Maudie,” Desdemona said finally. “She’s the one who told me you were here.”

Abigail looked up at her, a thousand unasked questions written on her face.

“How long, Abigail?” Desdemona asked.

“Two years.” She looked back down at the hands folded on her lap, where she picked at her nails. “Why did you talk to Maudie?”

“I wanted to see you, and I knew of anyone living at that damn house she’d be the one to help me. Good old Maudie, still does her shopping on Tuesdays and Fridays. You should have seen the look on her face when I popped out from the corner at the vegetable market, you’d thought she’d seen a ghost.”

Desdemona knew she was rambling, but anything was better than the oppressive silence. It seemed to do Abigail good, too, some of the obvious tension bleeding from her shoulders.

“I know our last conversation went...poorly, to say the least,” Desdemona continued. “I wasn’t thinking; everything happened so quickly and it all went to my head. I wanted to share the freedom I found with you without ever asking what you wanted. I was no better than Mother, and I’m so, so sorry.”

A look of pure astonishment washed over Abigail. “Dess—“

“I was so angry for so long, I couldn’t see that. Did you know when I found Maudie, I thought you’d be married. I wondered what kind of children you had and imagined what it would be like to be an aunt, because I just assumed that you would follow Mother’s plan for your life. I never thought you would keep studying with Father after not being allowed to continue for your mastery, but Maudie said you _did_. You were doing what you wanted all along, in your own way.”

“I—you _are_ an aunt,” Abigail sputtered.

“You know what I mean,” Desdemona said. “I spent so much time despising how Mother treated us without realizing I was just the same. Magic was your freedom. I shouldn’t have forced you to choose between it an me.”

Desdemona finally ran out of breath, and a look of mortification came over Abigail. Her jaw slacked, lips parting in a soft O. Her complexion went from an unhealthy shade of pale to a ghastly grayish pallor. Even her hands went still, and that, more than anything, told Desdemona that she’d said something very, very wrong.

“She didn’t tell you why I’m here, did she.”

It wasn’t a question, but Desdemona nodded regardless. Abigail let out a soft, disbelieving laugh, for a moment sounding so uncannily like Mother that it was unsettling.

“I didn’t want to help Father, at least not at the end. I didn’t have a choice.”

“What do you mean?” Desdemona asked. “You love magic, you always have.”

Abigail looked down at her lap. For a moment she seemed at war with herself, before her expression resolved. She raised a hand, like she was an oracle about ready to prophesize. “ _Fiat lux_.”

Nothing happened. Desdemona recognized the words to Abigail’s first, most precious spell. It was one of the few she’d seen her cast on a consistent basis, becoming so familiar that she hadn’t needed actually speak in over a decade to create light.

“I...I don’t understand,” Desdemona said.

“It’s gone,” Abigail replied simply. “All of it.”

“That’s impossible.”

Abigail smiled bitterly. “Nothing’s impossible. _You_ taught me that.” Then she sighed, bitterness giving way to melancholy. “Desdemona, I’ve kept so many secrets from so many people that I broke under the weight of them all. I never realized until I came here how unhealthy our family was. You leaving was the catalyst that stripped away the veneer of normalcy, but it wasn’t the beginning. The rot existed long before that. Perhaps it’s always been there, and I just never realized.”

Desdemona nodded. She had always known on an instinctive level the _wrongness_ that existed within her family and the society that they were part of, but never understood the whole of it until leaving home. It had been a rude awakening, to say the least.

“I’ve never told anyone all of it. Not even the healers here,” Abigail said. “It still feels like I’ve done something wrong, like there’s something wrong with _me_ for letting it happen.”

“It’s not your fault our parents are terrible,” Desdemona said. 

“I’ve told so many lies that I don’t know what’s true anymore.”

“I refuse to believe that. Gods, Abigail, do you know you were the one who kept me sane all those years?” Desdemona barely had enough time to regret her choice of words when a thought stuck her like a bolt out of the blue.

“Wait, what do you mean, you didn’t want to help Father? What were you helping him with?”

Abigail didn’t answer, shrinking down as if she could will herself out of existence while Desdemona stared. She knew, of course, that her sister spent time with their father studying and discussing the finer points of magic. She never thought to question any more than that; magic never piqued her interest, and quite frankly she found the minutiae hopelessly boring. Even if she wanted to, her mind was not made to understand the mystical arts in anything but its broadest strokes.

But Abigail...Abigail loved magic. Sometimes Desdemona thought the gods were cruel for having made her a girl. So many of her problems would have disappeared if she were born a son. Her mind worked in ways Desdemona often found difficult to comprehend, and there was no doubting her intelligence.

At the same time, Father was no hedgemage eking out a living at the margins of society. He stood at the top of his field, brilliant to the point of genius. His work was transformative, and he had little patience for fools or the ignorant. Anyone who would help Father would have to be at the same level he was.

“You helped father?” Desdemona hissed under her breath. “With his research?”

Abigail managed to nod.

“Since _when?_ ”

“Since we were in school,” she said, her voice tiny. “More once we graduated. Even more after you ran away. I-I don’t know if you heard, but he resigned from the University.”

The picking at her nails worsened, and Desdemona was afraid that Abigail was going to make herself bleed. She placed a hand over her sister’s and squeezed tight. Abigail was tense and quivering, reminding her of a frightened rabbit.

Desdemona’s vision misted over, and it took a measure of will not to start crying. 

“I’m sorry,” Abigail said. “I can’t talk about it. It’s...it’s too much.”

“I won’t make you.”

Her relief was palpable. “Thank you.”

Abigail pulled her hands away from Desdemona and folded them quietly in her lap. Even maintaining the perfect posture that was demanded of a lady of her station, she seemed...small. Almost invisible though she was sitting right beside her. Desdemona’s heart hurt for her sister, made worse by the ravishing guilt roaring inside her.

“I didn’t know,” Desdemona said.

“I didn’t want you to.”

They fell silent again, and Desdemona wasn’t sure how to continue. She was more confused than ever, awed and bewildered by the fact that her sister hadn’t just studied under their father but worked beside him as a peer. She thought she should have been angry that they both kept such a massive secret, but she could only think of a dozen oddities of her childhood that suddenly made sense.

But how did she go from working with Father to losing her magic entirely? Or end up living in an insane asylum?

_How?_

Behind them, Desdemona heard the sound of footsteps approaching them, the crunch of leaves giving them plenty of warning. She turned to see another of the asylum’s residents, a woman of about forty, a streak of white in her otherwise dark hair.

The woman walked hesitantly, looking around with a wide-eyed, lost expression on her face. At the sight of her, Abigail sighed quietly. 

“Good afternoon, Violet.”

“...Hello. Who are you?”

It took Desdemona a moment to realize the question was addressed at her. Luckily Abigail answered for her, “She’s my sister, Desdemona.”

“That’s quite the name. I didn’t know you had a sister,” Violet said.

“I do, and I’m very glad she came to visit today.” Abigail rose gracefully to her feet, glancing at Desdemona for only a moment before taking the woman by the arm. “Are you looking for something?”

“I don’t know.”

Abigail nodded. “I heard they were planning on doing crochet this afternoon. You always enjoy rolling the yarn.”

“Okay.”

Abigail smiled softly and directed Violet back inside before returning to their shared bench. Straightening her skirts, she sat down and said without prompting, “She lives in the room across from mine. She was in a carriage accident last year. The healer saved her life, but her mind was affected. Her husband couldn’t care for her at home and worries over her constantly. It’s sweet.”

“She seems to be in good hands,” Desdemona said. She hesitated. “As do you.”

The smile returned, more wry this time. “I’m an old hand. I tell the healers they should put me on staff, all I do for them.”

“So you’re doing...well?”

“Yes,” Abigail said forcefully. “It’s taken this long to get this far. It was hard. It’s _still_ hard, but two years ago I didn’t have a reason to live. I don’t think I could have seen you then. There was too much, well, there was too much everything.”

“So you’re cured?” Desdemona asked.

“It isn’t something that goes away, but...I’m better than I was. I’m content with that.”

It took Desdemona several moments to process what she said, and even then she still was unsure about how she felt about it. “Does that mean you get to go home soon?”

“I’m not going home.”

“What.”

“I don’t want to go home, and they won’t let me go anywhere else. I’m not leaving.”

Desdemona couldn’t believe it. “But you can’t stay here forever.”

“I can, and I will,” Abigail said, a hint of steel lining her soft, quiet voice. “I won’t go home. I refuse.”

“But...”

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” Abigail said. “There’s no way for me to discharge without Father’s permission.”

“What? You’re of age, they can’t keep you locked up against your will.”

“All of this has been against my will. I wasn’t in my right mind when I arrived, let alone able to make decisions for myself. As far as the asylum is concerned, that hasn’t changed.”

“No,” Desdemona said fiercely. “That’s not right. That’s not fair.”

“Life isn’t fair. You know that.”

She said it so matter-of-factly, like she were quoting some fact or statistic rather than the injustice that kept her locked in this small building. It didn’t matter how nice the staff were, or the people she lived with were friendly. Abigail was a prisoner.

“Please, Dessy,” Abigail said, “please don’t be angry. Father had every right to send me here; I _needed_ to be here. If I sent word I’m sure he would have me released. But I don’t have anywhere else to go, and I don’t want to go home.”

The sound of her childhood nickname on her sister’s lips broke Desdemona. The tears that she’d kept at bay escaped, slowly at first but gaining strength until all she could do is bury her head in her hands and weep.

Abigail said nothing, but she nudged closer and rubbed slow circles at the small of her back. Just like she used to. Just like they hadn’t spent the last seven years apart.

It wasn’t fair. Abigail should have been the one mourning, but she seemed completely resigned to her fate. She called herself content.

“I don’t understand,” Desdemona said between hitched, halting breaths. “ _What happened?_ ”

Abigail lowered her head, shame shadowing her face. A pained expression passed over her features, and Desdemona wished she hadn’t asked. It seemed all she’d done today is hurt her sister.

“It’s...a long story.” She raised her head and stared resolutely ahead, where a large oak tree shadowed a corner of the property. The leaves there were still more red than brown, and squirrels darted up and down its branches, collecting acorns for the cold days ahead.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked,” Desdemona sniffed, feeling suddenly weary.

“Sometimes the past has to die before you can start over,” Abigail said. “There is no spring without winter. I read that somewhere, once.”

She turned to Desdemona. The fear was gone, the Wright stubbornness evident in the line of her jaw, steeling herself once more.

“Do you want me to leave?” Desdemona asked. 

“Will you come back?”

“Of course,” Desdemona said. “Every day if you’ll let me. I’m done running.”

“I’d like that,” Abigail said softly. She picked absentmindedly at her thumb. “I promise there will be no more secrets. Maybe not tomorrow, or the day after, but I’ll tell you everything. You deserve that much. It just might be...slow. It still hurts too much to remember it all at once.”

“I’ll keep you to that, Abby.” Desdemona wrapped her sister in a tight hug, feeling Abigail stiffen at the sudden embrace before melting into Desdemona’s hold. They held one another like a drowning man did a piece of driftwood. For the first time tears slid down Abigail’s cheeks, leaving twin stains on the front of Desdemona’s dress.

The material almost smothered what Abigail said next, but over the sound of the chattering birdsong and rustling leaves, Desdemona heard her sister whisper,

“I missed you so much.”

Desdemona had no response, save to tighten her hold on her sister.


End file.
